with not much to do but maybe
some laundry and to hang out with a dog,
write some stuff I get to make up as I go
and a coffeemaker all to myself,
a book to read, full of thoughts that don’t matter
then float some dark clouds over, pushing
cold wind that worries no one but the trees,
so I feel no guilt for a day spent indoors
unshaven and in worn out clothes
and when the dog falls asleep in an old
leather chair, I will care not
who writes the nation’s laws.